


moments

by heavensabove



Series: anika trevelyan & her circumstances [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Attraction, Drabble Collection, F/M, First Meetings, Minor Character Death, One Shot Collection, Possessive Behavior, Self-Flagellation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24415582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensabove/pseuds/heavensabove
Summary: A series of smaller one-shots about scattered events from my Inquisitor's life.Someattempt at chronological ordering will be made, but I can't promise a thing. Rating may change later on.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Trevelyan
Series: anika trevelyan & her circumstances [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749697
Kudos: 15





	1. rushing into things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald tries to help, and then meets a strange man in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1hmAg7CQwZQVH4ieS2CBAsO3bU-QyLhSl/view) is what Anika looks like. She is baby.

Anika spends two weeks in the Hinterlands setting things right - or as right as she can manage. The pressure is crushing, and she barely remembers to breathe as she runs from the farms to the Crossroads to remote caves full of holed-up apostates, all the while narrowly avoiding ambushes by templars, bandits and yet more apostates.

In her previous life - and it was so strange to think that she was living that life only a few short months ago - she had responsibilities but they were never truly _serious_ responsibilities. She was too young to have the full weight of House Trevelyan's affairs thrust on her. Too unworthy by order of birth, as well.

She had wished, then, for more. For some kind of stature, for anything that would make her feel like her life was worthwhile.

Now the whole world seems to be bearing down on her, stamping on her such an important title, looking at her expectantly as if she can save them all.

And she _is_ trying, as hard as she can, but after these long weeks, her nerves are fraying and her mind is addled. As she struggles into the refugee camps at the Crossroads, she and Cassandra together lugging a pile of ram's meat behind them, she feels her legs giving out.

"Maker." she huffs, stilling so that she won't faceplant into the ground.

"What is wrong?" Cassandra asks. Anika can't tell if she's concerned or irritated.

"I need to sit down."

"Let her breathe for a second, will ya, Seeker?" Varric says, stepping forward to relieve Anika of her end of the rope tied around the meatsack. "I can haul this thing for a couple of feet."

"Thank you, Varric." Anika says, praying inwardly for Andraste to bless him. He's fast becoming the only friend she has in these circumstances, his kindness a much needed salve.

Cassandra grunts and restarts the task. Anika finds a rock and sits down, and immediately, a deep ache begins to thrum through both her legs. She stifles a groan, reaching down to remove her poleyns and greaves. Several hard knots greet her fingers as she starts massaging her leg muscles.

"You should have rested a little more, between all these tasks." Solas says as he watches her.

"Was there time?" Anika says with a slight chuckle.

"If you had made some. But I feel that you were too eager to prove yourself to do so."

Anika sighs, a drawn out and weary sound. Nothing seems to escape this man. "Have I?" she asks.

"Cassandra has gained confidence in you. You've taken appropriate steps to justify the Inquisition. The refugees here are beginning to see you as their savior - and is that not what befits your image as Herald?"

Anika presses down too hard and yelps in pain. There's a slight shuffling sound, and when she looks up, Solas is holding out a potion.

"Thank you, Solas, but I can't take that. Not for this. We're low on supplies and you'll need--"

"I have enough. I stand in the back casting spells. You and the Seeker take the blows before they can come mine or Varric's way." Solas stares at her, hand extended.

Anika bites her lip, then reaches out to take the potion. "Thank you."

"I hope it helps."

* * *

As the prone figure comes into sight, Anika makes a choked noise, throat closing around an exclamation to the Maker.

Her companions are quiet, but she hears Cassandra suck in a breath.

"Maybe it's not her." Varric says, brows knitted together.

Anika takes the letter tucked inside the dead woman's belt and there's no more denying it.

As they head back to the tower, Anika keeps her head down and thinks of _things_ \- her long list of tasks, the strangeness of her hand sparking green all the time, the smell of steel and leather at the blacksmith's, Cassandra's swearing as she and Anika clumsily gutted rams - so that she won't cry in front of her companions.

She doesn't know what she will say to Berand. His eyes had been so hopeful. How will she deal with seeing that hope die?

They enter the camp to a bevy of reverent bows. Anika nods uncomfortably to each one, feeling that she will never get used to this.

Berand greets them all with a smile that fades slowly when he realizes Vellina is absent.

Anika takes a deep breath. "Lord Berand, I'm sorry." She reaches for the letter, watches color drain from his face as he sees it, recognizes it, splattered with blood as it is.

"No..." he whispers, reaching out with trembling hands to grasp the parchment.

"I'm sorry." Anika says again, feeling sick.

"How could this...? We were supposed to be together! The Maker wouldn't keep us apart!" Berand's voice is breathless, as if he's been punched in the stomach. He looks at her helplessly. "What on earth am I supposed to do now?"

Even through the pain of watching him break apart in front of her, Anika senses the opportunity. She throws a look back at her group, sees that Cassandra has sensed it too and is looking at her expectantly.

"The Inquisition needs men who believe as strongly as you do." Anika says. "Come and help us restore order."

Berand's eyes change as he processes her words, a slow turn from grief to consideration to fervor.

After they've left, gained some distance from the tower, Varric turns to Anika.

"'Bring the Maker's word by the sword'? Sounds a bit...worrisome, don't you think?"

"We need such passion in our fledgling state." Cassandra responds sharply.

"And if that _passion_ leads to, I don't know, wanton killing of supposed heretics?"

"Do you not trust Commander Cullen to keep his agents in check?"

"Curly isn't omnipresent, is he?"

Anika palms at her face, almost able to taste the acrimony, knowing a fight is ahead. "We'll...see, about all of that. I'm hoping Commander Cullen will temper Berand's...eagerness, imbue him with some discretion." She continues quickly when Varric tries to speak again. "What should we do next?"

"I do believe there's a few rifts around the farm." Solas says.

Anika cringes, her sore left hand twitching. "We've already closed three today. Let's save those for later."

"Should we investigate that Grey Warden?" Cassandra says.

Anika turns to her, brow furrowing. "Oh, that...what was his name? Blackwell?"

"Blackwall. I heard at the Crossroads that he was seen around Lake Luthias."

Anika turns back to the road, considering it. Then she shrugs. "Why not? Scout Harding said there may be a spot to set up camp around there, which is always a plus."

* * *

She's not sure what just happened. It seems all she did was run down the bridge and ask the man if he was who she was looking for, then a whirlwind descended on them.

She barely had time to look at his face. She would be dead if he hadn't put his shield up in time.

And wouldn't that have done a number on the Inquisition's influence-gathering?

She shakes off the disorientation and looks at -- Warden Blackwall, taking him in for the first time. He's...big, a grizzled bear of a man, with a full, dark beard and deep-set eyes under strong brows.

He fits the stereotypical image of a Warden so perfectly, though admittedly Anika hasn't known many.

"You're no farmer." Blackwall's voice rings with suspicion. "How do you know my name? Who are you?"

"I know your name because I'm an agent of the Inquisition." Anika eyes the man. "I'm here investigating whether the disappearance of Wardens has anything to do with the murder of the Divine."

"Maker's balls!" Blackwall exclaims, unexpectedly. Anika blinks.

* * *

Anika glances sideways at her companion of two days as they walk on towards the farms. 

Blackwall is a quiet man, though not especially stoic or stand-offish. Far more from cold. He is alert and helpful, seeming to care more about protecting than killing during fights. She supposes that's a Warden's nature.

She doesn't know, yet, what to really think of him, but feels in her gut that accepting him into the Inquisition was the right thing to do. He fits well into this messy schema, perhaps even providing some stability.

And he has an impeccable beard.

Anika smiles slightly to herself. She's always liked beards.

As one of the farms' worn structures comes into sight, Anika takes another step forward, right onto a slippery, muddy patch on the road, too caught up in thoughts to have spotted it.

But she doesn't go down hard on her hands and knees, as she expects to.

"Careful, my lady."

Anika looks up into Blackwall's concerned face, both of her hands resting on his forearms as they stay wrapped around her abdomen.

Something rattles, shifts, and falls into place, a small particle of a feeling that flees her comprehension. 

"Thank you...Warden Blackwall." Anika says softly, her eyes tracing the sharp contours of his cheekbones and jaw.

"Please." He smiles, open and genuine for the first time. "Just Blackwall will do."


	2. old fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall deals with his attraction to the Herald and puts the fear of the Maker in a hapless horny boy.

He’s been watching her too intently, preoccupied with every little thing she does. It’s been a long time since a woman has caught his interest, but he recognizes the signs, the ridiculous things he starts feeling and doing.

Maker strike him down where he stands, for this woman - this  _ girl _ , really, to him; she’d be a woman to a man around her age, not her father’s - deserves better than his greedy eyes on her, to be the object of his twisted desires.

He watches her plump lips curl in frustration, horrified at the thrill it sends coursing through his traitorous body. Will he ever be a better man? Noble as he wants to be, not a lech still lusting after pretty young lasses?

“Sure is a  _ tricky _ one, huh?” Varric says, a small smirk on his face. Blackwall turns to him, features hardening. Varric quickly gestures to the astrarium. “I’m talkin’ about that thing, of course.”

“It’s absolute  _ nonsense _ .” Anika growls - another thrill, shooting straight to a part he’d rather forget at the moment - and steps back. “Leave it. Let’s keep moving.”

Anika’s hips sway alluringly when she walks, her figure apparent even through her armor. She doesn’t do it intentionally, seems annoyed and puzzled whenever people take too much interest in it, but the effect remains.

They stop at Redcliffe’s tavern. He tells her not to touch the cheese, and glowers at the men who turn to stare.  _ Andraste sure chose a looker to be her Herald _ . Aspirants to her bed. Not knowing a thing about her but acting as if they’re worthy.

Anika has never shown interest in anyone, as far as he’s seen. She seems focused on her tasks, on helping people, and he admires her tenacity, her dedication.

He should be a fatherly presence at her side, supporting and encouraging her.

Varric says something smug and sarcastic and Anika throws her head back, giggling like a bubbling brook, a sweet sound that stabs through Blackwall and settles deep in his chest.

Even Solas is fighting a smile as he watches her.

Blackwall tries not to frown. Here’s Varric making her laugh, here’s Solas with his strange camaraderie, and here’s…him, with his bullshit.

And there’s the fucking no-good bastards hovering around them like flies over a ram’s rotting carcass, a few of them edging closer.

Blackwall summons menace he usually reserves for battles and glares hatefully at a tawny-haired stick of a boy who dares to take a purposeful stride in Anika’s direction.

The boy turns and flops back onto his barstool like a toppled scarecrow.

Blackwall leans back, satisfied, his eyes drifting over to Anika.

She’s smiling at him.

His breath catches in his throat. In deeper, now.

_ Maker, help me. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted as a one-shot before but since lockdown is still on-going and I find myself writing almost on autopilot, I have a growing collection of short, pointless fics that would clog shit up if posted individually. So I'm just gonna compile everything here.


	3. return

He has no strength left, so he finds a quiet spot far away from others and sits, propping his arms on his knees, bowing his head.

He whispers a prayer, asking for a miracle. Then he stops, forces reality down his throat; the next prayer he says is for the dead, a plea to the Maker that her soul is free and content, that He rewards her for her sacrifices.

It does not comfort him as much as he hopes.

He should’ve done more. Done anything. She stayed and faced that…thing, all on her own. She died alone, buried under mounds of snow and debris. She would not have allowed that to happen to any of them, yet how easily they had allowed it to happen to her.

Anguish is thick throughout their camp. Regret, anger, hopelessness. Life has gone from the best of men and women. He’s seen Cassandra drying her tears against hands clasped in prayer, seen Josephine quivering in a corner. Cullen’s eyes haven’t focused on much of anything since they settled, and Leliana’s form pulses with restlessness.

They don't know where to go or what to do. They have failed, and the weight of this failure, what it means for the world, is unbearable.

And Blackwall can’t stop thinking about Anika’s smile, sweet and inviting, shy yet gently flirtatious. Teasing words ringing in his ears, a phantom voice that reaches in and squeezes his heart.

Maybe he had been in the process of falling in love with her. For days on end, thoughts of her had consumed him. His heart would race whenever she approached the blacksmith’s, eyes for nothing and no one except him.

He knows they would’ve gotten nowhere. He wouldn’t have allowed it. Yet…

He has  _ lost _ her.

He has failed her. He looks skyward and wonders if she can see him or hear him now. If she knows his reality now. How many failures in his life, how many sins, one more to add to it.

_ Forgive me _ , he thinks, and then he thinks:  _ Don’t forgive me. Hate me. Curse me for what I am. _

He leans his head against a rock. Hours pass and he stares at the sky, cycling through too few memories.

Then, suddenly, a commotion. Many voices crying out in shock and awe and reverence.

“Maker’s breath, she lives!”

Blackwall is on his feet before he knows what he’s doing, rushing through the crowd without a care for who he knocks over.

His knees almost give out and his throat catches on words, on thanks to the Maker, on a cry of relief, as he sees her.

She looks worse than she ever has in all the time he’s known her: skin pale and covered in frost, lips blue, eyes barely open, cuts and bruises everywhere not covered by armor. She clings bonelessly to Cassandra, then seems to lose the ability to be upright at all.

Cassandra scrambles to catch her but Blackwall is already there, pulling her into his arms, scooping her up bridal style.

“Bring her by the fire.” Mother Giselle instructs gently, throwing a thick blanket over Anika.

Blackwall does as he’s told, laying her down on a bedroll set close to the roaring campfire. As he tucks the blanket securely around her, he catches her looking up at him through eyes barely more than slits. She opens her cracked lips to say something, but consciousness abandons her.

“I’m afraid I need you to move aside, Ser Blackwall.” Mother Giselle says.

“Is she-?”

“She will be.”

Blackwall moves away, but doesn’t manage more than a few feet. He watches Mother Giselle clean Anika’s face, work to bring her temperature back to normal.

“I knew Lotus was tough.” Varric appears at his side, slightly startling him. “But I had no idea she was fucking invincible.”

Blackwall doesn’t reply for a moment. “I…I thought for sure she was gone.”

“No shit. I was preparing the first draft of the memorial speech in my head.” Varric shakes his head. “It sucked so far. I’m glad she’s alive.”

Blackwall swallows. “Me too.”

“Yeah. Looks like you get a second chance, Hero. Make good use of it.”

Blackwall turns sharply, but Varric is already gone, disappearing into the throng of people.

His shoulders slump, and he tilts his head back slightly, Anika barely visible from the corner of his eye.

He never had a chance to begin with.


	4. patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment together, after long weeks of toiling in the Deep Roads

Whatever they’re able to find once they’re beyond the barriers is a luxury, their tired, brutalized bodies spreading out the few bedrolls and lighting the campfire.

Anika leaves Valta at the wall, the Shaper far too interested in the engravings, too jumpy with mounting anticipation, to settle down quite yet.

Thom is looking over a gash on Sera’s shoulder, the latter hissing as the air stings it. He presses an ointment-soaked cloth against the wound and Sera yelps.

“Hold still.”

“It hurts like a Vivienne! Just leave it, beardy!”

“So it can get infected? Rather you stayed alive to see the surface again, than die down  _ here _ of a damn fever.”

Sera grumbles but lets Thom work. She springs away as soon as he’s done, kicking off pieces of armor as she makes for a bedroll.

Thom puts away the ointment and tosses the cloth off to the side, smiling as he sees Anika approach.

“Now that you’re done with Sera, how about taking care of your own wounds?” Anika says, laying a hand on his pauldron.

“I’m fine. Just a few cuts and scrapes.” Thom ignores her skeptical look, moves to make a space for her on the bedroll. “There’s only three of these, unfortunately,” he says as she sits.

“I don’t mind sharing,” Anika says, leaning against him.

“But Dorian and Sera will,” Thom chuckles, eyes on Sera who’s lying on her bedroll with all four limbs outstretched, protecting her territory. “And we can’t well ask Shaper Valta to get into bed with one of us.”

“Two of us need to sleep on the ground,” Anika says with a wry smile. She looks at him meaningfully. “Might as well be  _ us _ two.”

They vacate the bedroll soon after, as Dorian looks like he’s ready to drop any second. Sera is already snoring, and several minutes later Valta quietly slips into the remaining bedroll.

Thom and Anika remove the more cumbersome bits of their armor, but keep some on, and their weapons close, figuring that they’re on guard duty as well.

They settle in against the wall, shoulders and knees touching, wrapped in a comforting silence.

Anika looks at Thom out of the corner of her eye, sees that his eyes are heavy-lidded and feels slightly guilty. It hasn’t been that long since Corypheus, and here she is, dragging all of them off to another misadventure.

She pauses, considering how…clingy she’s been feeling. Leliana is Divine. People have been leaving Skyhold for various things and their returns are growing sparser. Just before they left for the Deep Roads, Varric spoke of a trip to Kirkwall, and Anika knows that he has a life there he must resume.

And Thom…Anika respects his strong desire to make amends as much as she dreads his eventual absence. She knows the absences will be long, and she’s forgotten how to live without him.

Such a strange thing. What if she had not considered it important enough to follow up Leliana’s hunch? She nearly didn’t go to that cabin by the lake, and now what she encountered there threads through the whole of her life and knits it together.

Gingerly, she reaches out to touch Thom’s arm, to hold onto him, and he turns his head to look at her.

“Is something the matter?” he asks, voice heavy with impending sleep.

“No, just…wanted to touch you, that’s all.”

He grins, wraps his arm around her and pulls her in close, so that her head falls into the space between his shoulder and neck.

“This is better, then,” he says, resting his chin against her forehead.

“Yes. Much,” she says, wrapping her own arms around his torso.

“Can’t remember the last time we were like this.  _ When _ did we leave Skyhold, anyway?”

Anika wrinkles her nose. “Two…three? Three weeks? Could be four, actually. I’ve lost track of time.”

“Time feels like it doesn’t exist down here,” Thom says, sighing wearily.

“I…miss tents.” She looks up at him and sees his responding smirk. “The privacy, you know?”

“I miss  _ privacy _ , too,” he says with a dirty chuckle, his hand drifting downward until it’s resting on her posterior.

She reaches back and moves it up to her waist. “We’ll get it back once we’ve finally sorted these earthquakes.” She smiles sweetly. “Patience is a virtue.”

“Fuck patience, really,” he grumbles, adjusting his position slightly. “Never been all that keen on it.”

“But we’re very close to…something. I’m sure we’re about there, to the end of this.”

“I hope so.”

Anika closes her eyes and snuggles in. After a moment, she speaks again, softly, “Thom?”

“Yes, love?”

“When we finally get back to Skyhold, I’m going to ride you like a steed.”

She feels his hand at her ass again, cupping firmly.

“Looking forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you even kill the boss at the end of The Descent. My Inquisitor was like 'fuck them mines' 🥴


End file.
